


my glossa is yours

by InsertCoolName



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Modification, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Roddy is a bit of a dweeb in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 20:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11608470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCoolName/pseuds/InsertCoolName
Summary: “Just wait until I learn how to flick it like the mod-surgeon showed me, he’ll be so freaked out then.”Drift gets a new body mod. Rodimus thinks it's weird. Ratchet just wants to make sure his speedster's OK.





	my glossa is yours

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know I only vaguely remember writing this. Old, uneditted, and untouched as usual.
> 
> It's funny, what you find when you go through your drive.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are Cool.

“What.  _ The  _ fuck.”

Ratchet paused in his work at the human expletive, not exactly surprised to hear it come from the captain but shocked that Rodimus had used it instead of Cybertronian vernacular nonetheless. The medic looked up to see Drift, fangs bared in a gleeful smile, walk into the medibay with a stride that could only be described as a swagger, curvy hips swinging with each step. Ratchet quickly moved on from the third in command to Rodimus, trailing in after him with a much more disgusted expression.

“Seriously,” the orange and red speedster continued, “what the _ fuck _ , Drift? Why… why would you--”

“Why would he what?” Ratchet interrupted, making Rodimus jump. Apparently he hadn’t even noticed the medic’s presence. Drift, however - his grin only grew at the question. Ratchet set his multi-tool down on the table in front of him and crossed his arms. “What did you do?” he demanded, glaring for extra measure.

The two speedsters came to stop at the other side of the table, the third in command’s EM field bleeding sheer delight into the air at Rodimus’ obvious revulsion. Drift clasped his hands behind his back in a facade of innocence.

“What ever could you mean, my dear Ratchet?” Ratchet ignored the endearment with both a flash of irritation and a tug at his spark. The swordsmech lifted on of his hands to touch it to his chest in an expression of hurt. “Why must you always assume the worst?”

The medic protocols in Ratchet’s coding kicked in instantly. He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re slurring, Drift. Your vocoder’s gone staticky, losing about seventeen percent functionality. I’d say you’re drunk, but I’ve seen you drink. You’re a lightweight.” Drift only shrugged, obviously agreeing. Get a few shots of engex in his tanks, Drift turned into a stumbling, giggly, clingy wreck, and for some reason it was often Ratchet who was on the receiving end of such antics. Hesitating only a moment, the medic continued bluntly: “We all know you’re not high, so that possibility’s out. Could be arousal--” both Drift and Rodimus seemed to choke on an intake “--but you’re EM’s too stable, even for someone who engages in deep meditation. In conclusion…” Ratchet let his arms drop, setting one hand on his hip and pointing at Drift, whose smug expression had finally turned to one of shock, with the other. “Something must be  _ physically  _ wrong, either with your vocoder, your intake, or your glossa.”

Rodimus’ face had seemed to lighten by the second during Ratchet’s little game of deduction until the orange and red mech’s smile was almost as large as Drift’s had been upon entering. Drift, however, looked embarrassed. A delicate blush dusting the swordsmech’s cheeks, Ratchet would go as far as saying that he was mortified.

“So,” the medic drawled, “what did you do?”

Rodimus was practically bouncing behind Drift, but Ratchet’s eyes were only for Drift as his blush deepened. Finally the third in command glanced away, muttering something indistinct under an ex-vent.

“What was that?”

“Drift got a mod!” It was Rodimus who finally blurted it out, covering his mouth with a hand instantly afterwards but refusing to look guilty when Drift elbowed him. He shoved the swordsmech away with an indignant “Hey!”, then went on to repeat, “Drift got a mod. A  _ body  _ mod. Go ahead, Drift.” The captain pushed at the other speedster, once more looking rather disgusted yet morbidly curious and thrilled. “Show him.”

Any excitement Drift had came in with had long since withered away, eyes downcast and EM field leaking out his distress at the situation. Ratchet felt his spark break a little at the sight in a moment of sentimentality, but he pushed it aside in favor of his medic protocols. Rounding the table to stand beside the speedsters, he narrowed his eyes.

“Body mods are private business, Rodimus,” the medic began, keeping his voice neutral in an effort to calm Drift. The white mech’s eyes shot up to his only to skitter away again. “The decision to get one is deeply personal, and they can mean different things to different people.” The distress in Drift’s field lessened a little only to spike once more when Ratchet added, “However, I think it would be best if I did see your new mod, Drift. It’s causing you problems, and I need to know if they’re just temporary or if it’s something that can cause long-term damage. I need to be able to reverse it, if it comes to it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Drift complained softly, but Ratchet was having none of that. He held up a stern hand.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Drift pouted. Ratchet knew that it shouldn’t be cute, but it was.

“C’mon, Drift, show him, show him--”

“Fine!” Drift exclaimed, elbowing Rodimus once more. “Fine. Just. Fragging can it already.”

With great patience stemming from too many years as a medic, Ratchet waited until, finally, Drift squared his shoulders, looking for all like he was prepared to face a firing squad, opened his mouth slightly, and let his glossa slide out.

Ratchet blinked. Drift had had his glossa re-outfitted with a long, thin one, red in color and forked at the end. All in all, it greatly resembled an Earth snake tongue.

“That’s it?”

“That’s  _ it _ ?” both Rodimus and Drift echoed, the former in scandalized shock and the latter in revelation. “That’s  _ it _ ?” Rodimus said again, leaning in to look at Drift’s new tongue before shivering away. “Ratchet, it’s… it’s disgusting. Look at it!”

“It is not disgusting!” Drift disagreed. “It’s just a glossa mod! I thought it was cool.”

“Nooo…” Rodimus looked at Ratchet with a pleading expression. “Please tell him that it’s really not cool. This is the opposite of cool. He’ll listen to you.”

Ratchet cocked an eyebrow at that last part. The day Drift listened to him was the day Ratchet believed in Primus.

“Rodimus, this isn’t even the wildest body mod I’ve seen.”

“What?”

“I’m even trained in installing them myself, actually, but cosmetics was never an interest. Especially with what was going on at the time,” Ratchet edged, thinking about the Institution. “But honestly this is something I could’ve done, Drift. And probably a lot more safely than in some clinic on Hedonia.”

Drift shuffled on his feet. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision,” he admitted. “I’ve never wanted one before, but when I saw the advertisements… well. And it was done in a perfectly safe facility, and I wasn’t alone. Perceptor was with me.”

“Surprised he even let you get it.”

Drift smiled. “I just barely convinced him.”

“Are you both  _ nuts _ ?!?” Rodimus was back to looking fully disgusted. “It’s his fragging  _ glossa _ , Ratchet. You can’t let him do that.”

“You’re right,” Ratchet agreed, “it is  _ his  _ glossa, therefore it is  _ his  _ decision. I have no say in it beyond giving my professional advice as a medic. That being said--” the medic turned to Drift, who was beginning to look as happy as he had before. “I want to examine the mod. Just in case.”

“Examine away, my good doctor,” the swordsmech crowed, beaming once more. “My glossa is yours.”

“Oh  _ Primus _ .” With that Rodimus was out the medibay door, leaving Ratchet with the white speedster and a certain image that he would probably end up recalling later when he was alone in berth. For now, though, he had work to do.

“Just wait until I learn how to flick it like the mod-surgeon showed me, he’ll be so freaked out then.”

_ Oh Primus, indeed. _


End file.
